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PAW Patrol: Shadows of Camaraderie: Chapter 1
Chapter One of the PAW Patrol fanfiction: Shadows of Camaraderie. (Please do not hesitate to tell me what you think! Please give me feedback! I am open to comments and criticisms!) The PAW Patrol is on it's way to a fine game of nil. The world is becoming increasingly more dangerous. Events are transpiring, revealing new questions and complex predicaments, to which the PAW Patrol knows not the answers, and must proceed with caution. Their bonds will be tested, and their trust will be broken. Next Chapter: Chapter 2 Story has vague mentions of death and depressed states of being. If this is triggering for you, close this page now. Chapter One Friendship is an irreproachable bond of iron-forged trust and mutual assurance. The impeccable bonds of uncorrupted fellowship have the potential to vanquish any evil from the face of the earth. Within these alliances of credence, there is a factor of unrequited love and loyalty. For a friend, you would realign the heavens and metamorphose the foundations of the earth to answer their beckoning. For a best friend, you would grant them the callous world and aid them in revolutionizing it for the better. Yet despite all sentiments of resolute conviviality, friendships lose their wholesome natures. The fallout of every selfless act of respectful amity inevitably transpires. A confrontation or a struggle is all that is required. Even a minor disagreement has the potential to ignite a gluttonous fire in the forest of disquietude. Then, the world crumbles into infernal annihilation. That semblance that once granted you strength and confidence, has left you a barren, hollow shell of who you once were. A tether that had held you to this physical plane had been severed. A part of your soul was removed. An empty tomb, a blackened void in your golden heart, is all that remains. To lose a friend is to be abandoned in a state of perpetual dolor. How do you discern solace from anguish? How do you repair the damage of a lost companion, with whom so many fond memories were made? When all is said and done, how do you forgive yourself? What could you have done differently to prevent the morbid demise of your camaraderie? How does one reclaim the light when all their world has been devoured by the shadows of camaraderie? They are haunted by what was and what will become. Camaraderie… Camaraderie. He shot awake. A steely blue canine shot up from their woolen bed, shouting objections against the crisp, soothing spring air. The scents of cherry blossoms and a rejuvenating ocean breeze stimulated his flaring nostrils. This young canine, this Weimaraner-Shepherd, shook their head in discontent against the unnerving silence of the tower in which he resided. The extensive structure had a curved build to it: bulky at the base and gradually narrowing towards a larger circular lookout at the top. The tower, coated with brilliant glass that vividly reflected the morning sun, was encompassed by numerous other smaller towers in which the members of a particular team resides. This grandiose construct was home to the PAW Patrol. His name is Centurion. The blue and white mutt is a cross between a White Shepherd mother and a Weimaraner father. He habitually was the first to arise on any given morning, a fact that he himself did not mind in the slightest, but the circles akin to bruises that enveloped his eyes undeniably hints otherwise. Regardless, the canine continues to work with some resolute conviction. He builds new, shimmering equipment for the team to utilize, and not once did his equipment malfunction. He was colloquially dubbed the “Tinker Tail” of the group. With the circles under his eyes, Centurion dragged his feet along the smooth, icy floor of his glass-wrought adobe. The cool sensation felt good on the black pads of his feet. He strolled at a leisurely pace towards the span that connected his house to the central building. The illuminating, resplendent rays bursting from the horizon, radiating with hues of pink, orange, and red, shone through the mirror-esque construction. Centurion gazed at the sunrise briefly and began to drift into sleep once more. He shook himself to consciousness, and the circles under his eyes started to fade gradually. In the central tower, a vacuous, echoing room of lavish blue hues, Centurion started towards the kitchen. Upon his arrival, he leaned forward abruptly and rested his head against the granite countertop. The counter had an icy touch even more severe than the floor of his adobe. After a few moments, before the tendrils of sleep could once again claim this young canine, his involuntary ritual was interrupted by a golden-tan young girl who apparelled herself in hues of soft pink. “You're up early, Tinker Tail.” “Oh, good morning, Skye.” Centurion had sprung up with astonishment, snorting briefly before addressing the Cockapoo standing adjacent to him. Her magenta eyes were lustrous against the multicolored sunrise that seeped its way into the Lookout. “I'm not he on only one awake, it seems.” “Yes, but you seem to stay up late and wake up early with your wits and a cup of coffee.” Skye chuckled in a jocose manner as she crossed her arms and leaned against her hip. She had a very athletic, yet clean-limbed build. She was a young woman, of course, she was not the stick figure that she appeared as when the canines were younger. She sported a more curved figure. Centurion rolled his golden eyes, chuckling as he shut the refrigerator door, careful not to wake the rest of the house with the noise. “Metaphorically speaking, of course. I have my wits and a glass of milk.” “Wits don't keep you sustained on a mission, silly!” “Das Frühstück ist die wichtigste Mahlzeit des Tages.” “You know I don't speak German. Nor Italian, for that matter.” “I speak both.” “Show-off!” Skye playfully nudged at Centurion's muscular arms, which were nearly the width of Skye's own midriff. He towered over her, as she was barely three-quarters of his height. She would eye only his chest and abdomen if they were to face each other. As the morning progressed like the slow, crawling drip of molasses in the biting chill of winter, each canine of the PAW Patrol gradually awoke. In a very peculiar, almost supernatural way, one German Shepherd, the second-in-command, failed to arise. The bubbly, upbeat Cockapoo claimed the responsibility to check on him without any hesitation. Upon arrival in his room, the German Shepherd was standing proudly like an idealistic statue of old in front of the windows. He basked in the morning sunlight, which shimmered off of his glossy coat. Skye discovered herself gazing at his muscle definition. Granted, he wore a white tank-top to bed every night. After a moment, Skye revealed herself to the Shepherd. “Are you alright, Chase?” Chase inhaled reluctantly, with some shadow weight dragging him down into an abyss of emotions he has no desire to confront. “We're a team, Skye. An impeccable team. Sometimes I can't help but wonder ‘what if we can't save everybody?’ What happens to us then?” “You're thinking about that time, aren't you?” “I am." “Do you want to talk about it?” “No.” He said softly. By the time the exchange was completed, the two canines were standing chest-to-chest, Skye gazed up into his rich, brown eyes and discerned a fading sense of trust. There are certain idiosyncrasies, certain methodologies, and rationales of Chase that only Skye can thoroughly comprehend. “I just… Have a bad feeling.” She could see it in his stunning eyes that he was lying. She knew the image he had to uphold, and she knew that he does not want to burden anyone else with his troubles. However, this perilous behavior was not exclusive to Chase. The smell of black powder flaring from the barrel… He could still recall the sensation of reinforced metal sundering against his arm as negotiations descended into infernal chaos. He could recall the flowing crimson life seeping, the emotionless eyes claimed by the shadows, the inexorable macabre of the moment, the lamentation of a step gone awry, and the desolate adrenaline that pumped through his veins. It accelerated, faster and faster, rushing and racing until the heart can burst and terminate the unabating anguish. He woke up to a lifeline. He woke up when others did not. He woke up. Fate, for some inexplicable cause or desire, retained Chase’s animation, albeit sundered and shattered like his riot shield when that robbery turned grim. The German Shepherd hobbled drudgingly past his caretaker and beloved, devoid of any zest or wonted ebullience. The seconds elongated into the assuasive illusion of an eternity, stretching the lifeline too far until it breaks. By the time Chase had reached the kitchen with his Cockapoo companion coursing loyally behind him, he experienced a gripping sensation that compelled him to return to bed for the night. “Ah! The prodigal son returns!” The voice that had just exclaimed was partially obstructed by the obstacle of a half-eaten bagel. The grayish mutt whose pelt was hard and pronounced smiled with a blithe demeanor. “How are you feeling, Chase?” “I’m fine, Rocky.” The Shepherd replied, with a hint of bitterness and bite in the tone of his voice. An unnerving silence gripped the immediate surroundings as if the air itself was chilled by the cold attitude of the Shepherd. He was irrevocably tense in his broad shoulders, and the other eight canines simply froze as Chase moved through the kitchen, unimpeded in his morning endeavors. The remainder of the team simply watched. The meal that succeeded the inherent hostility and discomfort of Chase’s awakening was comparable to the moment that Chase awoke initially. The ambiance was chillingly dispassionate, despite the crisp, invigorating breeze that brushed against the impeccable glass windows of the prodigious tower. That disconcerting silence was broken by the relieving chimes of alarms that the individualized emblems worn by the canines began to emit. When the team arrived at the apex of the tower, they all gaped in awe at their formidable and dauntless leader. Clad in his night-shaded jeans and vibrantly flamboyant jacket with crimson arrow-esque patterns along the sleeves was the leader of the PAW Patrol. Referred to by the moniker of Ryder, he smirked with a pretendedly vainglorious countenance. “Alright, crew, let’s get to work.” He announced with a deep presence in his tone, a commanding posture that beckoned the attention while simultaneously providing comfort simply from the sound and the fashion in which he spoke. “We’ve got some trouble in the mountains. A pair of drivers were caught in a rockslide. Their cars are stuck on a fragile edge. One wrong move and they drop!” As Ryder initiated in his routine assignment of jobs for the mission, he inadvertently lost the attention of one of his team. His mind wandered, not aimlessly, but with a taboo direction. With a solid, refulgent, chocolate pelt that shimmered like the reflection of lights against the delicate surface of water, one Labrador Retriever had an unpremeditatedly bowed his head, staring towards the ground as if he were in soul-crushing grief. A thought pounded against his mind, but he bore a peremptory conviction that he lacked the courage to seize a great opportunity. He felt a schism reach across the divide, distancing himself from his family. He felt himself panic as his chest began to seethe. “Zuma!” called a resounding voice from the beyond. He snapped back like a crack of incandescent lightning from the eye of unrelenting turbulence. “Oh! Y-yes, Wyder?” His lisp dominated his sheepish voice. For a moment, all turbulence and serendipitous volatility disappeared from the eccentric Retriever. “Are you okay?” Ryder repeated his question with identical worry. Those turbulent eyes were fixated upon the Labrador. “Yeah, I’m alwight.” “Alright.” The leader reassured the nervous canine that he had nothing to worry about and that if he needs to talk to anyone, they’re always there for him. “You and Centurion are on back up. Everyone else, let’s move out!” Within minutes, no, near fractions of seconds, the Lookout was cleared. It appeared as if it had been abandoned and vacant while kept by an arcane force that halted the decay of time. It was frozen in time. The Weimaraner-Shepherd glared at his teammate with a piercing turbulence that shattered every single defense that Zuma had hastily constructed in the erstwhile moments. Centurion flipped his bothersome fur tuft off to the side of his face, only for it to fall back into its previous position. “You’re not alright, are you? Parlami, amico." The volatility made a return, however, it lacked the characteristic serendipitous behavior that is habitually exhibited in the Retriever. Zuma kept a seafoam envelope tucked away surreptitiously in their drawer. He had not informed Ryder, he had not informed Chase. Zuma had instilled in him the fear of the Almighty, in whatever manifestation He in which he resolves to adopt. “Okay… I was offered a job with a Mawine Biology lab in a town called Whitecwest. There’s only one other Biologist there! So I thought I would go and see what I can do." “And you’re afraid… Because?” “Because I don’t know what Wyder would think!” The turbulence in his chest burst with the intensity of the Ring of Fire. It was brilliantly scintillating, paralleled by crimson trepidation. The act of displaying suppressed emotions is a perilous action, not exclusive to Zuma. Regardless, he displayed it as he marched through the vicinity, pacing through the same stretch of five feet to either side. “Do you have any idea what Chase would think, Centurwion? I’d pwefer to avoid the bewation, please! Thank you vewy much, sir!” Centurion stared at their friend with half-lidded eyes. His face was elongated into one of adjudication and sardonic humor. “Are you done?” “Perhaps.” “Now, here’s what you have to do…” -------------------- The air was dry and biting in the mountains. Indifferent towards the season of spring, there was still a fresh blanket of white that offered no solace to the plants that effortlessly endeavor to shatter their frigid confines. It offered no solace either to the PAW Patrol in their endeavor to safely extricate these drivers from their prisons, mangled and scratched by the forces of nature. “Lower me down!” Chase commanded as the durable wench he relied on so often lowered him closer to a plummeting, abyssal crevasse. The tension in the air was so dense and tightly compact that it could physically choke the air out of an unsuspecting victim. One tan-and-white Chihuahua by the name of Tracker had been unable to latch onto the bumpers of the mangled cars with his cables. Due to the delicate orientation of the vehicles on the cliff, Tracker would have to latch both cars simultaneously, while another force simultaneously counterbalances the torque of the cables. That plan was a calculated risk that Tracker was unwilling to undertake. Instead, he was adjacent to one of the cars, prepared to catch anyone, should they fall. “I’m almost there…” Chase muttered to himself as he extended his arm towards one of the frightened motorists, hanging on the edge of where there is no escape. There is no solace brought by the crystalline white snow that blanketed the peaks. There is no solace for those who can afford neither compromise nor mistake. They were begging for salvation and the delayed juncture with their maker. Beads of sweat cascaded down the brow of one airborne Cockapoo. Her jet pack released a mellow hum against the crushing tension of the ambiance. “Be careful!” She hollered. Her concern echoed and reverberated against the walls of the valley of demise. There was a strident echo of metal scraping against the peak’s craggy edges as the car shifted. “I can’t die here, man… I promise, I’ll stop racing on the streets and get a job.” The motorist muttered as his voice began to crack in a similar fashion to the stones that kept him from a grisly fall. He flipped his jet black hair back and attempted to reach out once more to Chase. Skye hovered above the other motorist as the screeches became increasingly more frequent and exponential in their volume. The Cockapoo vetted the interior of the sports car, which retained little value to its former shape, and caught a glint of broken metal in her magenta eyes. The buckle was crushed and flattened, with no means of escape. “Rocky, I need a seatbelt cutter. The seat belt is mangled, I can’t get them out.” “Alright, I’m on my way…” Rocky said as he climbed down from his vehicle, which took the appearance of a recycling truck. One Husky urgently handed to him a hook, which was attached to a separate winch that originated from her snowmobile. “Thanks, Everest. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” “Wait, what?” Everest muttered quietly. Her face stretched into a perplexed combination of giddy joy and atrociously horrified. The Mutt’s face contorted into a countenance of bemusement at their companions inherent confusion. Thus, in lack of a response, he repeated his assertion, “I said I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Rocky hoisted himself steadily down the side of the cliff, meticulously placing his paws such that he wouldn’t cause any undesirable disturbances. Yet the mission turned on its head as Rocky took another step. The screech hollered through the ages, nearly splitting Tracker’s ears, susceptive of the shattering sound. “Tracker, catch them!” Chase hollered as one of the broken shards of stone cut the Shepherd’s arm, preventing him from grasping hold of the motorist. Skye had no choice but to relinquish her grip, else she’d be torn apart by the falling weight of the disfigured vehicle. He hesitated at the physics of the situation. The Chihuahua, in a momentary speck of time, an infinitesimal modicum of the elongated seconds that passed by him, acted as his lungs nearly failed. Tracker dropped, driving a pickaxe into the side of the mountain, and sliding down a few meters. He left a short, diminutive streak of dust in his wake as he slid to a halt on the vertical descent. He fired his cables, but he heard only hissing gas. “''¿Qué es esto?” He exclaimed in confusion. He fired again, only to be induced with panic-ridden state of breakdown. “No, no, no!” He fired again and again, only for the invariable mechanical temperament as a result. The cars dropped. Marshall rushed to the bottom of the cliffs at the flighty aid of his airborne companion. He checked the pulses of each body, motionless against the moist stone of the valley. The Dalmatian released a shrilling wail as he hurled his helmet against the ground. He ripped off his medic-pack and threw the white pouch into the soiling mud. As the whole world froze, the canines inhaled their breaths of disquietude when others did not breathe at all. Chase wondered what gave them the right. -------------------- The balmy amiability of the verdant season offered no comfort for the Chihuahua, whose own malfunction cost the life of one person and coerced another into a cursed, vegetative existence. Whether or not he would awake was an entire labyrinthine gamble whose outcome was impossible to determine. Tracker remained sealed in his room against the chill of the milieu. He had determined that Chase and Skye, Rubble, Rocky, and Everest would be upset with him for allowing two innocent people to suffer such a desolate catastrophe. These sentiments gnawed and eroded at his insides, but Tracker’s own vigor repaired his soul, with a stopper on himself to prevent anyone from descrying the truth. Skye likewise passed the time in retreat, isolated in her glass-shrouded tower. For two weeks, the Lookout emitted a deathly ambiance that was rivaled only by the silence of the grave and the realization that one cannot save everyone. The avalanche that occurred the week prior left Everest trembling in the snow. For the first time, the white blankets emitted an aura of unwavering trepidation that gripped her soul. She saw the frozen cadavers half-buried and knew she couldn't help them. Marshall, Rocky, and Centurion were powerless to stop an explosion at a neighboring power plant. The wires whipping and crackling their electric fury. The blackness of those caught in the wroth voltage. It was a harsh reality, just as harsh as subjecting oneself to the congregation of burning vehemence within the mind. Eventually, the carrying capacity will be satisfied, and the ardent passion will lash out at the first unsuspecting target. “Look alive, team.” Ryder announced over the booming speakers. The manner in which he spoke had debonair inflection. “We cannot always have good days. I know we had a rough few missions these past two weeks, but we'll shake it off. We always do.” The anguish of ‘putting something in the past’ is like an insult to injury, and an insult to memory, especially to these canines. “So many people still rely on us. Even doctors don't have perfect records, but they show up to work regardless. Sometimes… Sometimes we can't save everyone, but we have to keep trying and do our best each and every day, otherwise we could save no one.” They could save no one. What a grim notion. “Anyways, we have the Spring Festival Dance coming up in a few days. Our town still welcomes us. Come on, everyone. No job is too big, no pup is too small.” Their signature catchphrase rang through the tower with the resounding confidence that the canines desired. They needed to hear those words. Yet despite the sentiments of the moment, the pain still lingers. The rushing of wind abrading against sliding doors vibrated through the Lookout as all nine of the team gazed at each other from across the central foyer. Their eyes were sunken, dismal, and reflected only a broken shade of eigengrau. “You know he's right.” Rubble said, shattering the silence. The Bulldog almost crumbled under the burning of his nerves as eight pairs of eyes glared with a hint of judgment from the dark of the gaze. “Shake it off, right?” “Yeah, shake it off. We're not perfect and we don't have to be.” Centurion elucidated in agreement, with a suave composure akin to that of their leader. “We can either learn from these past mistakes or we can continue to feel sorry for ourselves. Between the cliff, that bank, the avalanche, and the power plant, I'd rather do the former.” The silence was unnerving. The tension was equal in its ability to induce anxiety. The burly Weimaraner-Shepherd took his leave, and hastily strode towards the elevator. He ascended when he desired nothing more than to just return to the slumber he previously abandoned. As he arrived at the summit, he hesitated in his departure. He wished he could escape, but he knew he had no viable options. He had to face his summons. Ryder stood with his back turned, seemingly unaware of Centurion's arrival, or just indifferent towards the fact. “You wanted to see me, Ryder?” “Yeah, I do.” Ryder sighed. His voice was no longer silky and smooth like caramel. He was tense, and displayed an emotion that the Weimaraner-Shepherd thought was nonexistent in the golden heart of their leader. “I know my pups, Centurion. I know when something is wrong. But, I'm also not oblivious to what's going on in the outside world.” “Care to elaborate?” Ryder sighed again as he scratched the back of his head, which sported his military-style buzz cut. “I shaved my head and donated it to a cancer foundation. Remember, right?” Centurion was uncharacteristically perplexed at the young man's memorial anecdote, but the canine humored their leader for a few more moments. “Yeah, just keep that in mind, Centurion. I know when my pups are distressed. I know when they have malicious feelings towards one another. You may not see them, they may not even know that they feel them, but they're there.” “What's your point, Ryder?” Centurion inquired as his heart was beginning to be crushed under the weight of ireful anxiety. It compressed his chest like a clamp that glowed from the breath of a blowtorch. “Centurion, the world is changing. I have a hunch, but I just hope I'm wrong. If I send everyone out into the world, they'll always find a way back to each other. I know they will.” “Ryder-” “I called you here to give you a directive: prepare. Prepare, Centurion. Prepare.” ''End of Chapter One.Category:Fanon Category:Fanfics Category:DJ RJ's Fanfictions Category:Shadows of Camaraderie Category:Anthro Category:DJ RJ's Fanon Category:CenturiRealm Category:CenturiRealm Fanfictions Category:Parts